A Song of Twylight
by Jilladelphiafanfics
Summary: Before the 75th Quarter Quell...before the 50th Quarter Quell...there was the 25th Quarter Quell.
1. Prologue

~  
_Was it worth all I've done to get here?_  
_All the pain, angst, and victory caused because of me? _  
_The booms of cannons show me that it was. Every moment was worth this. _  
_But I guess I'll never live to see it. _  
~


	2. Chapter 1

My shoes clung to the mud underneath my feet as I trudged through the woods a mile from our tenement home. Rain poured down from the dreary gray sky, as I wrapped myself to the depressing atmosphere surrounding me. It was deadly quiet today, not a single bird chirp in sight. But that's good, no one will see me.

I made my way into the thick woods and trekked the muddy trails of district 8. I should be getting home, but it's just barely sunrise, it's the perfect time for a walk in these mysterious forests.

"Brother?" I heard a shuffle of leaves to realize it was just a squirrel. When I heard another echo of noise, I whipped my head around. "Terry? Is that you?"

Surveying the woods, no, Terry wasn't here. I've been coming here every morning for years. . .he's never shown up. Where could he possibly be?

Eventually I gave up, then plodded back to our tenement back towards the factories. I climbed the fire escapes up to nearly the top of the high rise building. The sky still resembled a charcoal color, as always. The factories gave off constant pollution to our skies.

As I found the window and squished myself inside, I heard a wail.

"Twyla!" My little sister, Lacey, beamed. I ruffled her head full of brilliant blond hair like a dandelion; or so I remember those. There's next to nothing on landscaping in district 8. Our factories cause too much pollution to have flowers and gardens thrive.

"Hey," I gave her a faint smile. "are Mom and Dad still at the factory?" But I knew the answer as soon as the words tumbled out of my mouth. Of course they were, working in those factories for twelve hours a day makes just enough to feed the four of us.

"Yep, I haven't seen them yet today. I woke up only an hour ago." Lacey grinned. She seemed so optimistic, so naive, like she still believes that we humans are still capable of good.

"Are you hungry? I can make something." I announced. Lacey looked excited so I pulled out some broth and simple noodles. I could make Mom's special chicken soup. . .minus the chicken.

"Mom's Chicken-without-the-chicken soup? It's barely ten am, Twyla." Lacey cocked her head to the side. It looked so adorable.

"Yeah, who says we have to follow the laws of food?"

"There is a law of food?" Lacey raised her left eyebrow.

I chuckled. "Nope, but let's make one." I grinned as I twisted on the gas stove and heated up the broth. I grabbed a wooden spoon from the drawer and placed it on top of the pot, to prevent over-boiling. After I heard the subtle sizzle of the broth, I slid into a chair at the kitchen table adjacent to Lacey.

"Were you serious?" Lacey whispered.

"Nope," I sighed as I observed the inside of our tenement. The main room was miniature, with only a kitchen and living room connected to a hallway leading into three bedrooms and a bathroom. The kitchen had white-but-deteriorated-so-now-it-resembles-the-color-gray tiles and  
an island counter with a mesh basket full of decayed fruit. The entire house was so bland and depressing, but everyone in district 8 had boring lives.

"Twyla?" Lacey's soothing voice snapped me out of my reverie.

"Yeah?"

"You did that thing again."

"What thing?" I asked, innocently.

"That thing where you zone out of reality. I have no clue where you go." Lacey sighed.

I glanced over at the stove where the stove was boiling broth. I jumped up from my seat, quick as a fox, and twisted the knob to turn off the stove. I grabbed the ladle and scooped out Lacey a bowl of chicken-without-the-chicken soup. I tasted a sample and realized it needed salt. I forgot salt.

"Here ya go, Lacey."

I glanced over at the digital clock, stating it was 1027 hours. The apartments were so eerily quiet that it scared me a bit. I swallowed my soup and drank a glass of water.

"I'm gonna go," Lacey set down her bowl, then stood up and walked out, down the hallway leading to the bedrooms and gone. I got up too, but I washed the bowls instead. After I finished my tedious job of cleaning the kitchen, I lead myself to the master bedroom.

The room wasn't anything special. In fact, it seemed almost smaller than my room and Lacey's. But in the corner of the master bedroom, was a crevice bookshelf full of antique books. Names like Ernest Hemingway and Emily Dickinson echoes through my brain, remembering when Mom read these to Terry and me when we were kids.

A note with illiterate handwriting was resting on top of the book stack: take Twyla for therapy on Mondays 11 am

No, no. I hate those therapy sessions. They suck. A stranger with next to nothing of knowledge about you forces you to admit your problem and gives weak resolutions - if they gives any at all. Mom and Dad said "it's for the best" but they just can't admit that I'm perfectly fine on my own.

Wait, isn't it Monday?

"TWYLA!" I heard that familiar cry echo through the house. "Miss Acosta is here!"


End file.
